


This New Taste of Love

by autoeuphoric (FreezingRayne)



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Fantasizing, Hand Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-22
Updated: 2016-11-22
Packaged: 2018-09-01 12:47:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8624989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreezingRayne/pseuds/autoeuphoric
Summary: “The Yuuri that comes out of you when you skate.” Victor’s lips quirk. “That Yuuri makes me shiver.” (Yuuri channels his eros character to seduce Victor.)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pear](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pear/gifts).



> This takes place right after the Cup of China. My kink is Yuuri slowly gaining self confidence. 
> 
> I know there's a bunch of contention over how to romanize their names, but I thought I'd just go with what I did in my previous fic. 
> 
> I hope this works for you, Pear!

Yuuri’s euphoria at taking silver at the Cup of China is rock solid. Bullet proof. He will, he tells himself as the cameras flash and Victor’s glee lights him up from the inside, never be unhappy again. 

That lasts for...oh, at least twelve hours. 

On their way home, his mood fractures along spiderweb cracks. Not even childhood dreams coming true can stand up against the onslaught of a really shitty day. 

Traffic in Beijing is abysmal; they arrive late to the airport and are forced to run for their gate, bags dragged behind them and smacking at their ankles. The plane is oversold, packed, and full of screaming babies desperately trying to harmonize. In Hong Kong their connecting flight is delayed due to malfunction, stretching what should only have been a four hour trip into nearly a day-long ordeal. By the time they finally touch down in Tokyo, Yuuri’s mood is sour to the point of pickling, and the brilliance of the day before feels like it happened ten years ago, or possibly to someone else. When his bag ends up misplaced, he can’t even conjure up any surprise. 

Their train for home doesn’t leave until tomorrow, and they had planned to do some sightseeing in Tokyo in the meantime, but right now Yuuri just wants to curl into a ball and pretend the world doesn’t exist. It’s rush hour and subway is packed. They are jammed chest to chest, Yuuri’s legs aching and his head beginning to pound from dehydration and sheer annoyance. They are very, very close. Yuuri closes his eyes and breathes. 

Throughout this whole wretched day Victor has not once dipped below mild consternation. His poise is godly. “Are you alright?” 

This is a question with really only one socially acceptable answer. _Of course, I’ll be fine_. And if he gives it, Victor will accept it, because that’s what Victor does. He meets Yuuri where he is, takes him at face value, even when it’s obvious he isn’t telling him the whole truth. He doesn’t prod. He doesn’t lead his witness. If Yuuri wants to open up, he has to do it on his own. 

“I’m a little overwhelmed.” Yuuri admits it carefully to the cleft of Victor’s chin. “And I could use some caffeine.” 

“Mmm.” Victor slithers his arm out from where it is pinned between Yuuri’s ribs and the umbrella of the women next to them, hooking two fingers through the strap on the ceiling. He puts his other arm around Yuuri, holding him tight as the crowd moves in steady waves of commuters getting off and on, new faces but the same constant weight of bodies. Yuuri’s heartbeat is in his throat, it’s in his brain, in the soles of his feet. “Let’s see what we can find.” 

When Yuuri thinks back on this moment later, it feels significant. He isn’t precisely sure why. He just remembers the jostling press of dozens of people, the squealing of the subway car’s brakes, and the little turned up corner of Victor’s mouth. He rests his head against his chest and closes his eyes.

\--

They go straight to a cafe without checking into the hotel, Victor’s suitcase and Yuuri’s duffle dragged with them up the stairs from the street. The host’s good manners don’t slip at all, in fact after Victor flashes her a smile, flirts in his terrible Japanese, she lets them prop their bags up behind the hostess stand. 

Yuuri wonders, as they sit down at a round table patterned with silver stars, what it must be like to have that sort of power, that charm, and be willing to use it. 

“I came here the last time I was in Tokyo,” Victor says, picking up a menu with a flourish. “All the dishes are themed along the western zodiac. I chose this one--.” He taps a parfait halfway down the menu. “Because it had a capricorn symbol next to it, and I can’t read Japanese.” 

Victor is exhausted. Yuuri wouldn’t have been able to tell last year, but now he knows the subtleties between Victor’s various enthusiasms. When it is feigned, when it is genuine. 

Victor orders the sagittarius parfait, which is huge and fancy and decidedly phallic. They look at each other over the top and Victor wriggles his eyebrows. His nose crinkles up like it does when he is amused, and Yuuri’s stomach does that swoop like it does whenever Victor’s face does anything at all. 

Yuuri gets coffee. He is a little too queasy for solid food right now and he’s never had much of an appetite for sweets, even when he isn’t watching his weight. Getting anything at all in his bloodstream is helping Yuuri’s head, and the caffeine is helping with the fatigue. He watches Victor lick carefully at his spoon, holding it delicately between three slender fingers. Yuuri remembers his first few nights at the onsen, when he’d been forced to navigate chopsticks. He had been terrible at it, but he hadn’t complained once. 

His hair is a little greasy, and when he runs his fingers through it, it sticks that way, mussed to the side. The cafe is chilly and little pricks of gooseflesh have sprung up across his arms. Last spring it had been so disorienting when Victor had first come down to breakfast in a t-shirt. Yuuri had only ever seen him in formal settings--televised performances, glimpses at competitions, that line of outerwear he had modeled for UNIQULO. The fact that there are arms and legs and bare skin beneath the costumes is a reality Yuuri had needed time to adjust to. And the fact that there is a human that Yuuri can touch, speak to, connect with beneath his layers of hero worship, well. That’s a reality he is _still_ adjusting to. 

Victor is watching him across the demolished landscape of ice cream. Watching Yuuri watch him. His gaze is warm, filled with satisfaction, like Yuuri is a project of which Victor is particularly proud. It makes Yuuri warm and full all the way down to his core, like he has eaten something delicious and endless and he will never be hungry again. But eventually Victor will look away and the hunger will return, worse than ever. 

“Where does he go?” 

“Hmm? What?” 

Victor’s smile is slightly squashed by his knuckles propping up his chin. “The man you turn into when you perform. He isn’t there when you’re at home, or here, or even in practice. And then you step out onto the ice during a performance and he appears, like Mr. Hyde.” He grins apologetically at the reference. “I’m curious. What changes?” He stirs his softening ice cream. One of the cream puffs bursts, oozing custard. “Is it the crowds? The cameras? The other skaters?” 

Yuuri starts to shake his head, but then he reconsiders. Competitions really do feel different, it’s true, and those are all contributing factors. “Partially, maybe? I don’t...I don’t really know.” 

The cafe is full of couples, the daytime student crowd giving way to dates. Yuuri is very aware that he and Victor are here alone together. Not that they haven’t eaten in public before, but everything after the Cup of China feels different. The world has taken on a new shape, or he has. 

“The costume is part of it.” Victor’s old costume.

“The Yuuri that comes out of you when you skate.” Victor’s lips quirk. “ _That_ Yuuri makes me shiver.” 

Yuuri can’t breathe. His hands feel frozen to the tabletop, crooked at the knuckles like he’s clinging on for life. 

“Not that I don’t like all the other Yuuris, but the one on the ice--that one is impossible to resist.” 

\--

The words continue buzz through Yuuri like a wasp in a window--disquieting, impossible to ignore, potentially dangerous. They follow him out of the cafe and through the hectic, colorful nightlife of Ikebukuro, all the way to the hotel. Yuuri had been looking forward to having an evening to decompress and recover from the trip before he returns to the noise and high drama of his family, but now he can’t seem to sit still. 

He sits on the floor and stretches, attempting to clear his head. Victor lounges on the bed with his tablet, swiping back and forth between his email and instagram, reading out comments to Yuuri. Phichit’s pic from the hot-pot place has a ridiculous number of faves. 

“I can barely remember that,” Victor admits, palming at his eyes. “Good thing there’s photographic evidence. I never did find that pair of underwear.”

They had only booked one room. At the beginning of the season the rationale had been to save money, but now that Yuuri has sponsors cost isn’t an issue anymore. Still, neither of them had suggested they do otherwise, or that they complain when the room turned out to only have one bed. A simple mistake, easily fixable. But. Neither of them has tried. 

It doesn’t mean anything, Yuuri had told himself for so long. Lots of skaters and coaches are close, sometimes enough that rumors spread. The smiles and glances, the warm little whisper against Yuuri’s neck as his scores were revealed: _did it feel good?_ Or the fact that Victor has stopped looking at his feed and is looking at Yuuri instead, a slow, hooded onceover as he stretches a leg out across the carpet. 

It doesn’t mean anything. 

And then the free program in China happened. And everything had changed. 

Yuuri stands up. It’s too warm in this room. He should go out, walk off some of this nervous energy that is shooting tingly to the tips of his fingers and toes. But if he does, Victor will just follow him. 

_Okay! where are we going?_

He’ll get on his phone and find ten different bars within a block, restaurants managed by famous chefs, something old and scenic to visit. If Yuuri tells him he wants to be alone, he’ll know something is wrong, think he’s done something wrong, and he hasn’t. This is. This is Yuuri’s stuff. 

“I’m going to shower.” 

Victor’s eyebrows go up and his legs give a little kick. One of his socks has slipped down almost off his foot. “Okay.” Something lurks at the bottom of his voice but Yuuri doesn’t have the will to parse it right now. “I’ll be here.” 

The shower’s tiles are gleaming white, the water turned up hotter than it ever is at home. Yuuri stands beneath the spray and lets it wash the tension from his shoulders, lulling away the remnants of his headache. His thoughts swirl like the steam swirling around his feet. 

_He kissed me. Back on the ice. He kissed me._

But Victor had been right in the cafe--the ice is a foreign country. A different planet. A gleaming, distant star. Soaked in triumph, surrounded by cheering crowds and news cameras. Sports pundits were already rationalizing the kiss as a publicity stunt, or just more of Victor Nikiforov’s recent bizarre behavior. And Victor hadn’t mentioned it, after the fact. He had spent the hour after the performance critiquing Yuuri’s form and admonishing him for changing the toe loop to a flip, even as he praised him in front of journalists. 

_I wouldn’t be able to resist him._

Yuuri looks in the mirror, hair a damp frizz from towel-drying, water dotting his shoulders and collarbone. His chest rises and falls in slow, measured breaths. 

_Where does he go?_

Slowly, feeling silly and tremulous and positive this is a terrible idea, he pushes his hair back off his forehead. It’s still just wet enough to stay. He breathes in and holds it. Then he walks out of the bathroom. 

Victor is absorbed in his tablet again, hair mussed, face slightly pink from where he’s been scratching at a patch of razor burn. Yuuri waits at the foot of the bed for him to look up. It is the precipice, the moment of hang time between taking off for a jump and the landing. Nothing to do but see it through until the end. 

Finally, after about five seconds that last eons, Victor looks up. Yuuri’s heart seizes, his stomach flips over, and his brain demands what are you doing? 

But it’s Victor. Just Victor. Just Victor Nikiforov, five time Grand Prix champion and celebrity love of Yuuri’s life. God. 

His gaze halts at the towel around Yuuri’s waist, eyes catching there in a crystalline stutter. Then they flick upward, dragging a flush of heat in their wake. It rolls up Yuuri’s chest and blooms over his cheeks. Victor’s mouth is open, lips slightly wet, and for one sickening moment Yuuri thinks he will laugh at him. 

Actually, maybe that would be better. Then they could just chuckle away the awkwardness of Yuuri forgetting to bring his clothes into the bathroom, of looming over Victor half-naked like a weirdo. 

Victor doesn’t laugh. He licks his lips and pushes himself up onto his knees, sinuous and slow, shunting his tablet to the foot of the bed. Yuuri feels the exact moment the delicate structure they have erected around this tension between them starts to crack. The wind sighs softly against the window. It reminds Yuuri of home, creates the illusion that he and Victor are the only two people for miles, the world compressed down to the space between them. 

“Not fair,” Victor says softly. “You have way less to take off than I do.” 

He isn’t pretending this isn’t happening, or playing coy.

“Catch up,” Yuuri suggests, just as quiet. 

Something flashes through Victor’s eyes, something Yuuri has caught little glimpses of before, felt its outlines and oblique angles. Now that he has seen its iceberg depths he can identify it. 

Hunger. Furious, impatient longing. 

_Oh._

A pulse of pure adrenaline moves up his legs, his body fooled into thinking he is about to perform his Eros program. On the bed, Victor is undressing. He half-assedly folds his shirt before swearing in Russian and kicking everything off the edge of the bed. His tablet totters for a moment and then follows his clothes down with a soft thwump against the carpet. He reassumes his position on his knees, with a very pointed look at Yuuri’s towel. 

“Now who needs to catch up?” 

Yuuri pulls the towel away. His nerves try to stall him again, slamming down on the brakes, trying to send him skidding away into disaster. They’ve been naked in front of each other often at the onsen, but never like this. Not with Victor’s pupils dilating, his breaths sharp, his cock thickening between his legs. 

_Remember who you are_ , he reminds himself. The fatale, the beauty, the seductress he forges for himself out of fancy and frustration. That’s him. The body that twists out that dance of passion and betrayal, that’s his body. 

“You’re watching me,” Yuuri says. 

“Hmm?” Victor’s eyes are cloudy. 

Yuuri brushes his fingers over the crown of Victor’s head, then down to cup the back of his neck. “When I compete. You’re watching me. Not teaching, not coaching. Just watching. That’s--.” He flushes. “That’s why that Yuuri vanishes when I come off the ice.” 

Victor blinks, internalizing. “Well. I’m watching now.” 

Something inside Yuuri crumbles, barrier walls giving way. The springs scream as he collapses onto the bed, Victor’s breath whooshing hard against his face. Then they are crashing together, legs entwining, fingers sinking into hair. Everything Yuuri wants is roaring inside him, pressing at the inside of his skin, too big to be contained. He pours it into Victor’s mouth and Victor moans, drinking it in. He paints kisses down his neck and across his throat, tastes the space between his collarbones. Victor tries to wriggle out of Yuuri’s grip, but Yuuri reasserts it, keeping him flat on his back. It had gotten dark while he was showering, and Victor hadn’t turned on any lights. His hair is in pieces across his face, shadows on shadows.

“Yuuri,” he says, followed by a long whisper of liquid Russian. “I guess it’s your turn to surprise me.” 

“Is it really a surprise?” He lets go of Victor’s wrist for a moment to push his hair out of his eyes. “You knew I admired you. I was--I was obsessed with you.” 

“I know.” Victor grins. “I’m glad.” 

_I know._

They’ve each been waiting for each other to make a move, all the while knowing the other was waiting for the same thing. Victor is his coach, abstaining out of propriety or professionalism, although how much he has of either of these things is open to debate. And Yuuri...Yuuri hasn’t been able to marry his fantasies with reality, unable to conceive that Victor could want the same things he did.

“We’re kind of ridiculous,” he says. 

“Yeah,” agrees Vi tor. “But I like us anyway.” 

Victor is obviously the more accomplished lover, but he lets Yuuri lead, lets him hold him down and kiss him until they are both shaking, pressing against each other in frenzied little fits of motion. “You should have mentioned you were planning to seduce me when we were at the convenience store earlier,” Victor pants against his ear. “I would have bought condoms.” 

Something shorts out in Yuuri’s brain. He makes a tight, very un-eros-like squeak. 

Victor’s smile is electric in the dark. “Plenty of time for that later.” 

“Y-Yeah.”

For now Yuuri applies himself to getting his mouth on all the parts of Victor he’d tried so hard to avoid looking at whenever they were in the bath. His neck, his shoulders, the geometric lines of his ribs and his long, taut legs. His nipples, trembling, ticklish planes of his stomach. He doesn’t kiss his feet, but he does trace the tendons, the places they connect with his ankles. Yuuri hasn’t spent much time looking at his feet, but he knows they will be even more busted up than his own are. No one so relentless, so exceptional, won’t have scars to show for it. 

“Mmm…” Victor laughs as Yuuri licks a stripe up the side of his neck. “You’re as bad as Makkachin. Just attacking when my guard is down and kissing me all over.” 

Yuuri groans. “Please don’t compare me to your poodle.” 

Victor’s giggles get more pronounced. His hair smells like oranges and Yuuri wants to roll around in it. Maybe the comparison is apt after all. 

He realizes, abruptly, that he has forgotten about his character. He’s supposed to be that Yuuri right now. He’ll do that sometimes when he is having an off day, sink down too deeply into the technical side of the program, focusing on the shift of his weight, the air in his lungs, the aches in his thighs and calves as he pushes off the ice. 

But he isn’t playing a character right now. He’s Yuuri. Just Yuuri. 

He wishes he had six more hands, there are so many places he wants to touch. Victor is brilliant, unexplored territory, a mountain peak he’s gazed at from a distance for so long. The last year he’s spent months skulking around its base, never getting up the nerve to climb. Victor’s breaths get harsher as Yuuri’s kisses move to his throat, and he sucks it in hard when Yuuri gives an experimental bite. 

“I wanted--fuck.” He wraps his arms around Yuuri and drags him closer, presses their bodies together in a delicious tangle. His nose brushes the shell of his ear. “Ever since I saw you skating my program, and when you put my costume on--.” He bites something out in Russian that is almost certainly a swear. “My self control has been god-like this year, just so you know.” 

“ _Your_ self control?” Yuuri is grinning deliriously--he can’t help it. “You’re the one who greeted me naked, what about my self control?” 

“I was supposed to be naked! I was in the bath! You were the one who couldn’t wait for me to get out.” 

Yuuri laughs, remembering the blunt force trauma of Victor rising from the steam dripping wet, like some spirit from the depths. Seeing him had brought every single adolescent fantasy roaring back, every night spent with Victor looking down on him with his perfect frozen smiles. Who’d have known the reality would be so disorganized, have a temper that could turn on a dime? The reality drank too much when he was stressed and then took his hangovers out on whoever was nearby, he packed twice as many clothes as he would need. The reality kissed Yuuri in front of hundreds of spectators and a dozen news cameras. 

Victor’s attention slithers away. To the clock on the desk, or maybe to his phone. 

Yuuri says, “I thought I told you to never take your eyes off me.” He aims for sultry, probably hits slightly dorky. Despite this, Victor’s eyes snap back to Yuuri’s face. 

“I didn’t. I couldn’t. No one in that whole stadium could look away. You had them.” 

Yuuri knows. He remembers drawing it out of the crowd, their shock, their praise, their desires. For him, and for what he represented--eros incarnate. 

“What were you thinking about?” Victor asks. “When you licked your lips on the ice?” His thumb traces the seam of Yuuri’s mouth. 

“That everyone hated me for stealing you away. And that was fine.” 

Victor’s eyes widen with shock, then narrow with pleasure. “Yes, steal me away to your ice castle, my prince!” 

Yuuri tries to look princely, but instead he just starts to laugh. They are pressed together all the way down their sides. Victor touches his mouth again. “Well, I know what _I_ was thinking about.” 

Desperate heat pulses in Yuuri. His hands shake. He slides down Victor’s chest, and when his trajectory becomes obvious Victor mumbles in Russian, snags his fingers in Yuuri’s hair. His stomach goes concave as he sucks in a breath. “Yes, yes, god.” 

Victor is larger than him in several key ways that he has never been more cognizant of than right now, eye to eye with his dick. But this Yuuri--the fatale, the seductress, the most beautiful woman in town--she isn’t cowed by the prospect. She has had dozens of men. Hundreds. 

“Have you done this before?” 

Yuuri stares at Victor’s hipbone for a while, fingers tracing the perfect v of his stomach, before dragging his shit together and forcing himself to meet his gaze. He flushes, bites his lip, and shakes his head. 

“Then I am honored, Yuuri Katsuki.” Victor’s tone is goofy, but his eyes are blazingly reverent. They hollow Yuuri out, replace his insides with molten heat. It’s alright that he’s never done this, because Victor is his teacher and Victor will be patient with him. He may be demanding, but he is never cruel. And he suddenly wants nothing more than to have him in his mouth. 

Victor lets out a soft cry at the first touch of Yuuri’s tongue, and like it had back on the ice in China, the world seems to reconfigure itself, shift like a twisting kaleidoscope. Victor nestles his hands in Yuuri’s hair, not pulling, just resting (though Yuuri thinks it would be alright if he pulled). When Yuuri licks him from top to bottom, his breath hisses out into a jittery laugh. He sounds drunk. He sounds dazed. 

Yuuri forgets to be self conscious. 

The noises that Victor makes, the shaking tension in his hips as he fights not to force himself down Yuuri’s throat, all of it sends a shattering blaze of power through him. He’s the one doing this to Victor, he is the one making him feel this way, with his mouth and his hands, tiny licks and sloppy kisses. Victor has never been stingy with praise, so when Yuuri does something right, he knows it. 

“Oh, fuck--yes, more of that,” when he laps at the head. “God, _Yuuri_ , your mouth, you’re such--,” when he pushes down far enough to threaten his gag reflex. A hissing tremble of breath when his teeth scrape the shaft. Victor starts to forget himself as he gets closer, twisting Yuuri’s hair between his fingers, hips stuttering out a heavy rhythm, groans loud enough that it occurs to Yuuri that they might be overheard. A sharp pulse of arousal echoes in him, his cock aching and, oh. Wow. _Everyone_ knows, everyone knows that Yuuri is the one to have Victor laid out under him, sleek and writhing and debauched. The thought makes him daring, makes him pull up and say, “Pull--pull my hair, I want you to--.” 

Victor grunts like he has been punched, and then both hands anchor into Yuuri’s hair in a sharp yank. Yuuri’s eyes tear up and his jaw aches, but if he couldn’t take a little discomfort for the greater good, he wouldn’t have become a figure skater. 

Another frantic tug at his hair, and he looks up just in time for the exquisite experience of watching Victor Nikiforov come, eyes closed, mouth slack, shoulders rising and neck tightening. Yuuri doesn’t pull away fast enough to avoid getting some of it in his mouth, rolling down warm and sticky over his lips and chin. He is too overheated to be embarrassed, and the expression on Victor’s face when he opens his eyes, the touch of his thumb against the wet corner of Yuuri’s mouth, the murmured praise and hands that drag him up for a sloppy, desperate kiss, make even the bitter taste and altogether unpleasant tactile experience worth it. 

“Mmm…” Victor hums between soft, lazy presses of his mouth against Yuuri’s. “Such a quick study.” 

Yuuri laughs, but it turns into a moan as Victor wraps a hand around his cock. He had been so focused on Victor that he had barely noticed his own arousal, but now--.

“I’ll return the favor,” Victor says against his ear. 

“I don’t think--.” Yuuri’s cock twitches hard, imagining Victor’s soft, sensual mouth wrapped around him. “I don’t think I’ll--ah!” His back arches. He comes in a dizzying rush, burying his face against Victor’s throat. He keeps stroking him, climax going on and on until he’s shaking, until he has to push his hand away and just breathe, letting the world spin.

They come down together, lying horizontally across the bed with their legs sticking out. Yuuri is a little chilly on the side not curled up against Victor’s chest, but he feels too good to get up and put clothes on. He probably shouldn’t bother. He needs another shower now. They both do. 

Victor is tracing fingertips over the curve of Yuuri’s bicep, just light enough to be ticklish. “Whatever happened in the bathroom to make you decide you wanted to ravish me, well. I hope it happens again.” 

Yuuri grins against his shoulder, even as heat spreads across the bridge of his nose. Maybe one day he’ll stop blushing at everything Victor says. Maybe one day he will really be that magical version of himself that appears when he skates. Maybe they will meet in the middle and forge something new. 

Until then he’ll just be himself. A pretty okay thing to be, honestly.

**Author's Note:**

> hit me up at autoeuphoric on tumblr! enable my fic-writing habit by [buying me a coffee](http://ko-fi.com/A486GHM)


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